The Fourth
by SamuraiSal1
Summary: It's July Fourth once again, but America's feeling pretty down. Not only could he not celebrate with a huge party, but everyone he knew seemed to be busy that day, plus the TV was only playing depressing shows. However, just when all hope was lost, someone knocked at the door... USxUK, slightly angsty.


**Hetalia Headcanon Number Seven dictates that: "**When a nation feels like crying but can't for whatever reason (around company, needs to hold out with pain for a bit longer, can't risk being overheard, etc), then instead force some part of their land to rain, diverting their tears/sobs (sobs being thunder) instead of crying, themselves."

**So what do I automatically think when I find out it's raining, **_**IN THE DESERT**_**, on the Fourth of July? "**_**DANG IT, AMERICA, NOT AGAIN! DON'T CRY JUST BECAUSE ENGLAND'S IGNORING YOU ON YOUR BIRTHDAY AGAIN**_**!" And then, of course, I have to come up with a story to go with it. **

**XXX**

Two Hundred and Thirty Six.

America had been around for Two Hundred and Thirty Six years. Obviously it wasn't a huge, centennial celebration. Or even a half-centennial. It wasn't even one of those slightly bigger than usual parties that he had every ten or twenty five years.

Just Two Hundred and Thirty Six.

He was a year older, yeah, and he was certainly proud to have been an independent nation for so long, thriving on his own and eventually becoming a superpower. He'd be lying if he said he didn't like to have birthdays. The more the better, since it meant that he was alive and his country was still going strong.

But…

Well.

America couldn't deny that this year didn't look particularly special. And if he was being honest with himself, it looked like it would be a pretty lonely birthday, too.

With the economy the way it was, he hadn't been able to throw a decent birthday party—not in good conscience, at least, with the way China was still badgering him and he was still on the tail-end of an economy-induced cold. And. Well. No birthday party meant no seeing other nations and having a halfway decent time with them.

Still, America couldn't bring himself to actually _complain_. After all, his people threw a lot of parties for him, from sea to shining sea. He even got fireworks! And his people didn't even use fireworks for New Years in a lot of towns, so obviously getting fireworks meant something!

But he couldn't quite shake the lonely feeling.

After all, he didn't get to see the other nations all that often. Canada was almost always there, but America didn't really have the money or the energy to drive all the way up to his place to spend the day. Japan was busy with making a new game and hadn't wanted to be pestered by anyone for quite some time, so America didn't want to call him. Lithuania was still on vacation with Poland and hadn't even brought his phone with him. Italy was… probably doing something with Germany, and America didn't really feel in the mood to be lectured for calling them in the middle of… whatever it was that they like to do together. China was still mad about the debt thing, Russia was point blank uninvited for being creepy, France was uninvited for being a pervert the last seventeen times he was invited anywhere to anything, Spain was probably with either Romano or France and Prussia, Switzerland was… too trigger happy to watch the fireworks, and…

By the time America had finished going through his mental list, he was thoroughly depressed.

Before he knew it, it was late afternoon, and he found—to some surprise—that he hadn't eaten anything all day. He was half tempted to forego food entirely to fit in better with his depressed thoughts, but his stomach was less enthusiastic. Sighing, America sat up and made his way into the kitchen, hoping against all hopes that there was a hamburger in there somewhere.

The universe had something against him, however.

He, the United States of America, was out of hamburgers. _Hamburgers_. And he had no hot-dogs, no Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup, no Instant-Dinners. Upon closer examination, though, he found that there was some leftover spaghetti at the back of the fridge. Grudgingly, he pulled it out and scooped a larger-than-necessary helping into a bowl and heated it in the microwave. As far as comfort food went, it'd do, he supposed.

…Not that he ate food for comfort. Pfft. When Japan said that a few years ago he didn't know what he was talking about, why, didyouhearsomething_different_?

Still, a few minutes later found America curled up on the couch, clutching his bowl of reheated spaghetti to his chest and watching a historical documentary of some sort. As it was July Fourth, it wasn't exactly difficult to find something to watch that was all about him.

However, after a few minutes of mind-numbing statistics, he suddenly remembered what this documentary was highlighting. That day, of all days, they'd put on a documentary of his Civil War. Any other war he'd be perfectly fine with handling a documentary of, _but why his Civil War_?

There was an uncomfortable twinge in the scar that wrapped around his waist—a scar that had been made up of smaller scars that represented the battles of the Civil War; they were jagged, though, with varying depth and evenness—and America felt a sudden bout of nausea that had nothing to do with the few days the spaghetti had been sitting in the fridge. However, he didn't feel quite up to turning off the television and instead just changed the channel.

_Click. Click. Click. Click_. Pause._ Click_.

"—_that our flag was still there_. _Oh say, does that star spangled banner yet wave? O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave_?"

He paused his channel-flipping to admire the girl's voice. It was just a re-run of some famous football match, but he seemed to have caught it at just the right time. Unfortunately, he found after just a few minutes of watching that he didn't really want to watch it.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. _"No thanks!" _Click. Click._

"—America is, of course, celebrating its Two Hundred and Thirty-Sixth year of Independence. How about a hand for our beautiful nation, audience?" And the camera pivoted to the audience, which immediately broke into vigorous applause, with a segment in the back chanting "USA! USA!" as loud as they wanted.

America felt a surge of pride at that, and looked towards the still half-full bowl of spaghetti beside him before picking it up. He examined it a moment, debating, before picking up his fork again and figuring that he probably needed it since he hadn't had anything else that day. Still, there was a nagging voice in the back of his head that couldn't help but point out that if he didn't eat so much, maybe he'd have gotten someone to be there for his birthday. The nagging voice was promptly shut up with a few more bites of spaghetti and a few more clicks of the remote.

After a moment's indecision and a few misfires (one of which was pausing on a documentary of 9/11, but he changed as quickly as he could, since that scar was still too fresh and too raw to aggravate anymore), he finally found a decent documentary, one on World War Two.

Half an hour passed, with the house silent and dark (save for the television). However, the documentary took a turn for the worse when it started to discuss America's entry into the war, and how England (and especially his leader, Churchill) was happy to have some help against Germany. America couldn't help but feel a bit bitter, though, when they kept talking as if Pearl Harbor never happened, as if Japan had never attacked him. As if no one died…

There was an uncomfortable pricking sensation in one of his scars again—at his lower back; he'd been stabbed right in the back and had a small circle incision to stand for Japan's flag—and America fleetingly wondered if the television was blatantly trying to get him to curl up in a corner and start crying. If it was, it was really giving him its best shot.

Another half-hour passed, having fortunately passed on from the beginning of World War Two and was steadily progressing towards the end.

America turned the T.V. off before it could say anything about Nagasaki and Hiroshima—before people could try to twist his intentions yet again; before they could make up some story about wanting revenge against Japan.

Disheartened and bored with the loss of the television, he flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

He didn't realize his eyes were watering until tears leaked from the sides of his eyes and started to get into his hair. America closed his eyes to clear the tears out of them, and after a moment's reservation, he willed himself to stand up. America walked into the kitchen, taking the used bowl of spaghetti with him before chucking it into the sink, with perhaps a bit more force than really necessary.

He had a moment's battle of whether or not to just cave in and watch a chick-flick while eating an entire bucket of ice cream. However, before he could decide—because that idea sounded really, _really_ good even if he'd regret it in the morning—there was a knock on the door.

America startled, whipping his head around as if confused about whether or not he could have possibly heard a knock on the door—because no one ever visited him uninvited, something that depressed him if he gave it more than a second's thought—before walking, however cautiously, towards the door.

Feeling silly, he called out, "Is… someone there?"

There was another knock on the door, louder that time, and America hurried to open it. His eyes widened in shock when he finally registered who, exactly, was at his door.

"About time, you git," England muttered, easily stepping past America into the house. "I thought you weren't even home until I heard your voice. Why were you standing around in the dark like that?" He asked, glancing up at America as curiously as he could get away with (showing emotions without really showing emotions was, like, England's specialty or something, America was sure).

"Um. Well, I was kinda…" America started, biting his lip. For a moment he wondered if he was just hallucinating the whole thing. After all, England was standing in his house on Independence Day. There was something just… _wrong_ about that! "Nevermind. Why are you here?"

"If you don't want me here, I'll leave," England said slowly, raising an eyebrow.

"No!" America interjected, a little too quickly to be normal. He gulped and hoped England hadn't notice. However, when the island nation crossed his arms, America knew he had, in fact, noticed.

"All right, something's up," England decided. "First you don't invite me to some ridiculously huge Fourth of July party, now you're sitting at home, alone, right when the fireworks are about to start?" He frowned. "I could take not being invited, as I know you haven't been throwing those huge parties for several years now, with the economy the way it is, but…" he paused. "You aren't acting like yourself, America. Frankly, I'd be a fool if I said I wasn't worried."

America bit his lip, cautiously backing away, suddenly aware of the tear-tracks he still had around his eyes and his general rumpled-ness. It occurred to him that he'd slept 'till noon and hadn't bothered with getting a shower, either. "No, everything's okay, seriously!" He insisted, backing up a few more steps.

England was quick upon him, advancing faster that America was, and caught his wrist with surprising ease. "None of that. Tell me what's wrong, right now, or else I'm contacting your boss and saying that your alien friend has been dabbling in cloning-technology again."

America said nothing, just bit his lip a bit harder and struggled against the other's grip.

"Come now, America," England said, exasperated. "The sooner you say it, the sooner we can get on with the evening, and the sooner I can have a slice of that cake you're always so proud of." As he said it, he glanced around the kitchen, only to find that there was, in fact, no cake to be found. He whirled back around to face America and spoke again, voice lower, "You mean to say that you didn't even bother with your birthday enough to make a cake?"

"I—well, it wasn't really important, I didn't think anyone would be coming and everyone'd make fun of me for being fat or something if they knew I made myself a cake and had to eat it all by myself, so—" he frowned, jerking his mouth shut so as to hold in the urge to cry.

"That's ridiculous," England snapped, but quickly amended his statement when America flinched from the harsh tone. "I mean to say… You can't possibly think that any of us would try to keep you from even _simple_ happiness on your birthday, do you?" When America didn't answer at first, England gently tugged on the other's wrist again, gently coaxing him to answer.

"…I just…" America was suddenly aware that tears were in his eyes again. "I… I don't want to be alone. But no one could come and you're always so mad at me this time o-of year so I didn't even bother to check with you, and… and… I didn't even have enough stuff to make hamburgers or anything, and there wasn't a carnival or anything near my house, and I don't even know if they have fireworks… and everything on T.V. was about times in history that I got hurt or hurt someone else and I don't want to be just _that_, you know? I don't want to be either being used or using someone else. And I-I just… don't want to be alone, but I am…" he trailed off.

England seemed to sense that it was all America was going to say on the matter. He sighed, then pulled the other close, kissing him gently on the forehead, but it occurred to him a few moments later that America probably had tears on his face, and he gently wiped them off with his thumbs. England pulled away, carefully looking the other in the eye. "Are you better now?"

America's lips gave a slight twitch that plainly said that he was one wrong word away from being reduced to tears again, but he nodded anyways. "…Thanks."

"It's no trouble," England said with a smile. "Now, if you will? We have some fireworks to watch, remember?" He offered his hand, which America took gingerly.

"But…"

"I'm sure you'll find that the fireworks for this area are more than sufficient," England said decisively, giving America's hand a slight squeeze for reassurance. When the other still didn't look convinced, England simply leaned forward and gave America a chaste, sweet kiss. "Now, to the fireworks?"

"If you say so," America shrugged, evasive. He flushed red but didn't protest any further contact, instead choosing to lace his finger's with England's as they walked through the door.

The moment they stepped outside, there was a deafening BANG and a flash of color in the sky. America glanced up, bewildered at the scene in front of them.

"But I could have sworn…"

"All in good time, love," England said with a faint smile. "All in good time."

The fireworks continued on for a good half-hour before they finally died out, leaving only smoke and stars in the dark sky.

"Now, how about you enjoy your… Independence Day properly? With some cake and some soda?" And out of what seemed to be nowhere—but was probably just the pavement where he'd been standing before he got inside—England produced a single piece of cake on an unblemished paper plate, a fork, and an unopened Coca-cola.

"You got me cake?" America asked, eyes widening just slightly. He eyed the dessert carefully. "Er, did you make it, or did you buy it?"

"For your information, your brother made it," England said, perhaps just a twinge irritated at the non-verbal attack on his cooking. "There's more in my car, but I figured I'd fix you a plate."

"But how did he know to…?" America furrowed his eyebrows, picking up the fork and taking a tentative bite. It was, naturally, exactly how he liked his cakes.

"A few of us got rather… curious… when we found out you not only hadn't bothered with a party, but you hadn't made plans whatsoever. You usually get yourself a cake, at least," England chided. "And I recommend saying something next time you feel lonely. It would make things go a whole lot easier on the rest of us. We had to practically _decode_ every blasted evasive thing you said to us!"

"Er, sorry?" America said around a mouthful of cake. "But… how did you know…?"

"Even though no one else could be here doesn't mean we weren't thinking about you," England said with a sigh. "People _do_ notice when someone as influential as you has a birthday, you know. And those of us who care about you, _personally_, took slight offense when you wouldn't return our calls. Canada filled us in on how you sounded last time you two called, and we took it from there."

"We?" America couldn't help but ask.

"Japan, Lithuania, Canada, Italy, Prussia, France and Spain, Germany, China, and, naturally, myself." England gave a soft smile at the surprised look on America's face. "Yes, love, people noticed you weren't quite looking yourself the last time we met, but as it was, nearly everyone had pressing matters to attend to. So only I could show up today."

"That's…" America gave a disbelieved smile. "That's amazing." In a quieter voice, he added, "Thanks."

"Never a problem, love," England insisted, giving America a sweet kiss on the cheek. "Never a problem."


End file.
